


work song

by coffeecrowns



Series: author's faves [3]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Character Study, Hope, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Letters, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Queer History, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:16:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21525091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeecrowns/pseuds/coffeecrowns
Summary: Despite everything, Thomas Barrow grows old
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: author's faves [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629859
Comments: 11
Kudos: 148





	work song

**Author's Note:**

> i really don't have any explanations for this tbh

You are older than your father was the last time you saw him when they give you the house. Lord Grantham, the little Master George who will split oranges with you whenever he gets a chance, said you could stay in the Abbey. But there is no live in staff anymore. 

“It isn’t proper,” you insist, and Lady Grantham, Lady Mary who you’ve been serving since you were fourteen, and she looks more like her Grandmother everyday, smiles and says, “Quite right, Mr. Barrow,” and George rolls his eyes where he thinks his mother can’t see. 

Your father was middle class, with his store and his wife, and the way he didn’t think in titles. After thirty odd years in service, you’ve worked your way to something of that level. You stare at the key to your house in pure awe. You’ve never slept in a room that locked, except when you’ve fallen asleep in your office, which your body protests vehemently now. 

A few of the staff offer to help you move. You’ve been the Butler of Downton Abbey for ten years, through the most change the place has ever seen, and yet you are unable to hide your surprise. These are people you hired, who live in boarding houses in town, who only eat lunch with you. Richard sends them your way sometimes. You aren’t going to ask and they wouldn’t ever offer the information, but sometimes you look at them and feel like you understand. The maids, footmen, and the kitchen staff, they are like you. Anna looks at you sometimes. She is the keep of housekeeping. She’s knows it to. When you move out, she brings her children, who adore you for some odd reason, and brings flowers. You make her tea. When you write to Richard, you tell him about how it feels to lock your door but also how it feels to have someone at your table. 

You know he will read between the lines to find the invitation to your sense of peace. 

Of course, because your life is the way it is, that Hitler fellow seems to rise overnight, and for the second time in your life, England is at war. This time, there is nothing for you to do. You have gotten old, somehow. You have scars you aren’t proud of and men in your service that you are, and there is an ache in your chest that feels like hope. Then all the young men in the village go off. You look at Anna dismayed, and then explain to Lady Mary you no longer have the men available to do adequate service. 

“We are at war, Mr. Barrow,” she tells you, not unkindly, “Feel free to experiment until we find a solution that works for us.” 

Daisy’s kitchen maid, Sophie, taps you on the shoulder and asks if she could serve as a footman, just in the time being. 

“We are at war,” you start. 

“Exactly,” she says. She meets your eye, only for a second, and then looks down. Richard wrote her letter of recommendation. 

“I will speak to Lady Grantham,” you say. 

“Thank you Mr. Barrow,” she replies. You think of Sybil, in her pants, in her nurses uniform, and it doesn’t break your heart the same way it used to. You speak to both Anna and Daisy, who are delighted by the idea. Anna takes one of the long, black skirts and works some magic to turn it into barely qualifying women's wear, and Sophie beams. One of the extra maids who come on Wednesdays and Thursdays - Alice, can’t take her eyes of Sophie. You send Richard a picture, and in his next letter he explains how overjoyed he is to see her living up to her potential. 

Lady Mary gives you a nod of approval. 

Then Lord Grantham, little Master George is off to serve. It’s hard to argue with him when Princess Elizabeth is serving. He rides off with the Chauffeur, and once the car is out of view, you manage a look at Lady Mary, and she is crying openly, silent tears running door her face. You don’t let yours fall until you make it to your office. 

Lunch is a solemn affair. 

Downton finds itself, again, as a convalescent hospital. The weapons are different this time around, the wounds are different. Taking care of the injured is the same as its always been, at least in the mechanics. There are better drugs for worse wounds, and the men seem younger this go around. 

The hardest part is thinking you will see Sybill or Edward around the corner. It is worse with Sybbie takes up the torch and works beside you. You have loved so many people who are gone. You know Mary takes it hard, as well. You don’t speak about it directly, but you talk often. 

“It is odd doing this again,” she offers. The word odd is perhaps an understatement. 

“I believe Lady Sybil would be proud of us,” you say. 

“Yes,” says Lady Mary. “She would be.” Your entire life has depended on understanding what the woman says, and what she doesn’t say. This is the first time in years you don’t quite know what to make of the look on her face. You never thought you’d have a home or a family, but here you are, proving yourself wrong. 

You don’t soften in your old age. Not that you are that old. You see Richard more, after the war, and he compliments you like only a man who’s lived in London, through what they call the Blitz, can. You have wrinkles now, grey hair you blame on worrying about him. 

Anna says it makes you look distinguished, like a gentleman. You aren’t mean to her anymore, even though you could be. Bates died, and you go to the graveyard with her sometimes. She’ll laugh at you, call you a grumpy old man when you try for a jab, or she’ll poke back just hard enough to remind you she’s survived just as long as you have in a world no longer built for servants. Never hard enough to hurt. 

You are at a stalemate, it is 1950, and Sophie went off the college after the war. Sybbie is trying to become a fellow at Oxford, and Lady Mary has to pave the way with money so the old men will even read Sybbie’s words. She’s a phenomenal astronomer, which you didn’t know was a real career. 

But she’s clued you in to the fact that the stars move in the night sky. You are a grumpy grey man, and when Richard comes over and spends the night, once or twice a year when he gets the chance, you point out the stars movement to him. Richard accuses you of softness, and you reply that it’s only for him, even if that’s less true than it used to be. 

Buzz starts, that people like you, ‘the homosexuals’ are normal. Big fucking news. Still, you walk to the Abbey earlier than you used to, to read the paper in your office. You read the paper anxiously every morning, and scan it for the words that give you hope. You write to Richard, who writes back more candidly than usual, that the opening of this debate will eventually result in your freedom, but it will be messy until it stops. 

God, is he right. It is less severe in places like Downton, but even Master George, who you really ought to refer to properly in your head, speaks about how unnecessary the work they are doing to find homosexuals in the military and public service. 

“I’m quite sure I’ve met many fine homosexuals,” he says. 

Sybbie, back from fighting the stupid blokes in Oxford, writing her thesis, says, “Statistically, certainly.” You smile, at the way older, now passed Crawleys might turn over in their graves. That said, all the ones you have known have come around. 

Then, there is a case in London, three men are on trial from actions in the war. It drags on, and they are convicted. Richard writes you a letter about a less published story, about Alan Turing, his love, and how the government forced him to take chemicals, to change him, and how he took his own life. 

Richard, who has kissed your scars as you called him a fool, writes that times are hard, but perhaps it means times are changing. “Times are always changing”, you write back. You think about Alan Turing and for the first time in many years, you pray for a man who’s story makes you feel less alone. 

You are older than your father lived, when you retire, in 1960. You are 64. You are the last butler of Dowton Abbey. It doesn't really break your heart. You were irreplaceable. You are holding your breathe, waiting for change, as Richard writes you stories about people pressuring the government to make change. You have him over, more. He has a key to your house, which you hope he can understand what you mean. No one really bothers two old men. 

Lady Sybbie builds a planetarium at the Abbey. Lady Mary invites you over, just to supervise, it has been a long time since she’s had this many people in her home. She so rarely has people in jeans there. You put on the livery, just for the fun of it. Master George shares an orange with you, right there in the main entrance. Carson would have a cow, if he could see you. That only adds to the sweetness. 

Lady Sybbie becomes Doctor Sybbie, and that’s a title you will use with more than pride. These children, who feel like yours, are adults. Master George brings women home. Doctor Sybbie brings men. You watch Lady Mary stare them down, evaluating carefully. She doesn’t care a lick about status or wealth, but she watches with eagle eyes for love and character. 

One day, you are seventy one. Richard surprises you, at your home, with a cake. He is celebrating two fold, Parliment is going to vote on decriminalizing homosexuality. Part of you daydreams about standing in front of all those Lords, and saying, “I am not foul.” 

It seems both impossible and yet such a small step. 

They vote, and you wake up in bed with Richard behind a locked door. You are the safest you’ve ever been, and for the first time in your life, you are not a crime. It raises a weight you didn’t know you held. 

You walk with him to the Abbey, slowly, because you are older than you ever imagined, after dinner. You take him to the planetarium. You can focus in on the stars, the moon the Americans are trying to land on, that Sybbie wants to go help with, and the fact you hold Richard’s hand and it is not a crime. 

“You are mine,” you say in the dark. 

“And you are mine,” he replies. It feels like a promise, not a threat. 

**Author's Note:**

> Anyways, I've never written Downton Abbey fic, but this story has been in my brain for a few years now, and came back when I went and saw the movie
> 
> I'm kinda obsessed with queer history and the realization that Thomas would get to live so much of it and would only get to see the first big win is a little heartbreaking. So here we are.


End file.
